Looks Like I'm Going To Hell
by Kachimoochi
Summary: Literary Interpertation of Fallout New Vegas: Dust, a mod for Fallout New Vegas. When nature and humanity have murdered each other off, what will a man sacrifice to escape the fallout? What will he become? Has someone been counting cards the entire time?
1. Begin Again Tonight

Looks Like I'm Going to Hell

By Kachimoochi

Chapter I

Begin Again…Tonight

War…War never changes.

When the powers that controlled the world feuded with one another in pointless conflicts and disregard for any and all life, it never changed.

When the old world was washed away by the wrath of the Gods, and who remained started to rebuild, it never changed.

When the forces of God, nature, and science conspired against the survivors, it never changed.

And when the remainders lost their Civilization, and fought to take the ones that didn't belong to them, it never changed.

A man awoke in a dank and dingy warehouse, he was conscious for what seemed like hours, unable to decipher the dream he had woken from, and the reality he'd left.

He had collapsed on the floor either from exhaustion or grief; he honestly couldn't recall any of the day's previous events. He could only remember the phrase he repeated in his head whenever he awoke.

"I have to get out of here"

The man rose from his collapsed state, and jumped suddenly at a shadowy figure that passed his gaze. The shadow was only his reflection, but it wasn't a being he had recognized, not for a while.

The figure he saw in a broken, shattered mirror was a thin and gangly man. His only clothing was brown, tattered robes he had stolen from the corpse of a Brotherhood priest, or perhaps he had killed him, he couldn't remember, he wasn't sure if he cared.

He couldn't see his face, it was obscured by a metal helmet, it appeared to be from a lost age, or rather a resurrected one. It was a model of a bearded statue composed of the remains of a Corvega. One horn protruded from the left, and a broken horn protruded from the right. A broken knife or blade was duct taped to the center of the helmet, perhaps for efficiency, perhaps for style. Neither of which mattered anymore.

Normally the man would have removed his helmet and eaten some of the irradiated food he'd stolen from a Legion Remnant camp, finishing it off with a bottle of Vodka, but he couldn't. He could never look at his face again, not after what he'd done.

He couldn't remember what he looked like, what his life had been, only that he'd awakened one day and the hell he called his life entered another circle. It was at this moment of realization that he took notice of another figure on the ground before him.

It was the corpse of a woman, one whom the man had killed. She was dressed liberally, wearing only leather pants, and a tank top, he'd salvaged her shirt to make bandages. He couldn't remember why he'd killed her, perhaps she attacked him, perhaps he wanted to cut his losses. Either way, this presented an opportunity.

The masked man opened his knapsack which he carried on his back, taking one more look at the corpse he assured he'd created. Her head was bashed in with a metal tire iron; pieces of her head were spattered on the ground and the walls. The point of entry was in her forehead, and her face was contorted in a final expression of agony, her death wasn't swift, though she had gone down fighting.

He could have simply shot her, but his bullets were better spent elsewhere.

None of that mattered anymore; there was an important decision to be made, one that could determine the future of his survival, and even himself.

The only food that the Masked Man possessed was two irradiated cans of pre-war tuna fish. It was no doubt rotten, but it would provide him with substantial energy, especially when cooked on the hotplate he carried with him. But he noticed that there was another option.

The woman, whoever she was is dead, there is no sense in letting her body go to waste, right? Human is just as meat as any ordinary meat, it was just the stigma that made it a sin to eat, but could it be a sin too many for the Masked Man. He could just as easily cut a piece, just a small piece of her off, maybe a leg or an arm, it would uncountable provide him with enough volume and energy to make it for the next several days. But what would the cost be on his mind, his sanity?

Was there anything left inside his head to salvage?

Whether by his morals or his disinterest, the Masked Man belayed the cannibalism, at least for now, the tuna would only fill him for about a day, he needed to find food fast. He took the cans and forced them open with a rusty blade he used as a main weapon and stabbed at the tin, eventually creating a sizable divot to carve out a path. He feasted hungrily at the rotten, chicken-like fish, no time for savoring the morsels. He afterword chugged an entire bottle of Vodka, and as if by a miracle, he didn't feel guilty of killing the woman anymore, and perhaps even cannibalizing her.

Deciding to create an insurance policy, the Masked Man took his rusty blade and cut off the woman's left leg, slicing her thigh off from her torso and leg. He placed it inside its own compartment in his backpack.

"Only for emergencies" he spoke internally, not knowing if he was lying or not.

When his surgery was completed he ventured up the stairs leading out from the warehouse, scouring every cabinet and box for any usable materials.

Abraxo cleaner for deodorant, Fancy Lad Snack Cakes as bait for a gullible traveler, paper files as a desperate snack. These were truths post-apocalyptic survivors memorized.

_Begin Again…In My Mind_

The Masked Man turned immediately and produced his near-broken 9mm pistol, containing only 4 bullets within. The phrase was sung suddenly and loudly, and it seemed to be centralized in an office room.

"What the hell is that?" he thought

_Let's Sway Again…Tonight_

The music now seemed louder as he approached a door, accepting that the voice couldn't be coming from a human, it was much to angelic, to real, to old. What could it be then? Was he losing his mind? What was that song? It seemed so familiar.

_Your Arm…On My Shoulder, Your Cheek…Against Mine_

The Masked Man turned the knob on the door, only to find it locked. This led to him forcing his miniscule body weight against the door, to minute avail. It seemed that to satisfy his curiosity, he'd have to make another sacrifice.

_Where Can We Go…When Will We Find…That We Know_

He possessed only a single bobby pin, the classic and only feasible way to open a locked door in the wasteland. Using it on such an old door would undoubtedly destroy it, and there was no guarantee that it would open, or indeed that the room on the other side would contain anything that would assist him. He decided that the curiosity must be satiated, the music was pounding against his head, screaming into his mind.

_To Let Go…_

A satisfying click sound communicated to the Masked Man that his attempt had been successful. He swung the door open, in search of an immediate reward, or at least an answer to the infernal noise.

What appeared before him was tantamount to dream sent by Satan himself. The room wasn't a room, but a void, a long, black, endless void. In the middle of the void was a single activated light bulb illuminating a colored metallic box, flickering every so often.

It was a jukebox, from a time long ago. The Masked Man had seen them before, he couldn't remember where or when. He approached the box and entered the void. He didn't care that he'd wasted a pin, or that there was nothing to scavenge after paying such a heavy toll, he needed to stop the infernal sound. It was corrupting his soul.

_Begin…Begin Again Tonight_

The Masked Man pushed the box on its back, screeching the music before coming to a complete halt. The color left the machine, the music stopped, and the light above was extinguished. The Man was in complete darkness, his only avenue available being the door that led him here. The doorway was illuminated in white; he was unable to see the room he'd been through to enter the void.

He walked into the room, escaping the void for now, but perhaps the machine uttered a final response, or perhaps it was his sanity.

_Begin Again_


	2. Out Of An Orange Colored Sky

Looks Like I'm Going To Hell

By Kachimoochi

Chapter II

Out Of An Orange Colored Sky

The Masked Man took one final sweep around the warehouse, scouring every corner and crevice in search of anything to assist in his survival.

His labor bore three 10mm bullets, for a gun he didn't have, a kitchen knife which he used to repair his broken blade, and an irradiated box of Blamco Mac n' Cheese.

As he readied himself to exit through the main entrance, he noticed an object he had equipped, one he didn't notice before.

Upon his left wrist was a plastic contraption with a large glass screen. He recognized this as a Pip-Boy, an old world technological device used for survival and storing information. A terminal in one's hand, said the old advertisements. He wiped a splash of mud and grime from the left corner, just under a radiation gauge. The title read: _Pip-Boy 3000._

The man was especially confused now, the Pip-Boy wasn't a common object before the bombs fell, and they were in even shorter supply when the world ended again. For certain, the only people who possessed Pip-Boys were Vault dwellers. Could this mean that he was once a Vault dweller?

It wouldn't surprise him if he'd killed an unaware dweller and looted their Pip-Boy himself, it wasn't an undue consideration.

The screen of the wrist-mounted device was cracked in the left corner, with a fine line of scratched glass extending across the length of the device. The Masked Man pressed the large red "Power" button and awaited what the contraption would perform next.

After a red flicker and a period of black and white static, the device reactivated itself, presenting a "Welcome Back" screen after "Rebuilding Database", whatever that meant.

He was greeted next with a blue-suited cartoon walking in an endless loop, the time and date read: _9:99 9/9/9999_. His location was simply marked as "Warehouse", when he momentarily switched the dial to the map tab.

He immediately switched back to the walking cartoon; something had caught his eye, something important. A word sat beside the glitched date, a word the Masked Man could only assume was his name.

It read: _Rudolph Wallace._

"Who is this?" The Masked Man asked himself.

"Is this me?"

"Is this the person I killed?"

"Did I kill anyone?"

"I don't remember" he finalized, there was no one around to give him an answer, there never would be ever again.

Whoever this "Rudolph" was, it was the only semblance of an identity that the Masked Man could think to possess. Whether or not it was truly him or not, it was all he had, and it was better than nothing. It still didn't matter after all, there was no one to tell, everyone was dead, or they would be soon.

Rudolph straightened his stolen robes, fastened his legion helmet, unsheathed his 9mm pistol, returns his backpack to its back position, and ventured through the threshold, into eternity.

The environment Rudolph was met with was empty, of sight, of sound, of life, of death. The warehouse, he could now see, was a lone building facing an empty desert ranging as far as the eye could see, and behind it, an unapproachable mountain. It was logical he decided, he couldn't be flanked when he had needed shelter, he was pleased to know that his previous consciousness had an adequate survival sense.

It wasn't entirely empty however, for the forces of nature had conspired against the restructuring humanity, wishing to kill it off in a perfect storm of destruction, disease, and overpopulation of beasts.

The shine of the afternoon sun ignored the masked eyes of Rudolph, not that it would have mattered, his eyes and attention was stolen by an even greater threat.

Far along the horizon, behind the sizable desert between the warehouse and the nearest road was a massive, endless, poisonous orange cloud. As if by godly premonition or intervention, Rudolph recalled what he was staring at, or at least what the rumors had commanded, back when there were people to start such things.

We've all heard of the legend of the Sierra Madre, the triumph, the tragedy, the love, the hate, the redemption, and the lonely fate.

It was a resort frozen in time. A second chance for the wealthy to Begin Again, to entertain their dramatic lives with a getaway of gambling, sun, and song.

But as we all know, one can't outrun their past, and though the turnout that attended the grand opening attempted to, the powers of the world decided to extinguish them all without a second thought.

All that remained of the beacon of foolish hope were the skeletons populating the decadent attractions, and the monsters hired to make them.

As proof that either god or nature intended to dissolve the beacon entirely, an orange cloud one day appeared amongst the resort. What once appeared to be a miniature city atop a glorious canyon, now only remained a rectangular spire, penetrating a body of poison. The cloud didn't kill the unlucky that were caught within its wrath, no, that was too merciful, such a vile race wasn't deserving of such mercy.

The souls assaulted upon shed their old lives, and membranes. They walked in constant agony, appearing as beings of pure muscle, their skin and fat long since eaten by the gluttonous cloud, granting them eternal pain, and the knowledge to suffer from it.

The red living skeletons now populated every environment that within the Sierra Madre, until the cloud saw another opportunity.

One day, after the Second Battle of Hoover Dam, after the duel between the Couriers on the edge of two worlds, after the departure of the Bear and the Bull, the cloud decided to fill their vacuum, and descended upon the region of New Vegas.

That was when the world as Rudolph knew it ended

What remained of established society was soon dissolved, either by chaos, by rival gangs, or by the genocide of entire populations by the cloud. No one was safe, no one could be trusted. Even the most trusted and docile of people had now become the vilest of murderers, or they had been the first to die.

That was all Rudolph's mind allowed him to remember at this time, now forcing to recite his newfound creed.

"I have to get out of here"

Knowing there was no way to escape the latest wave of the cloud, he needed to find shelter fast. The warehouse had been picked clean, and unless he wanted to resort to cannibalism quickly, he needed to find food fast.

Rudolph walked alongside the cliff the warehouse pressed against, walking in a westward direction from the north-moving cloud. He wouldn't dare walk along the roads, doing so was suicide, those who did were either powerful enough to fear no reproach, or easy pickings.

The sand and gravel crunched beneath Rudolph's feet, he moved slower now, he didn't need to fear what walked and stalked along the roads, his true fear lived underground. Those lucky enough to witness what live beneath the ground had good reason to fear, it would be a more merciful fate to have one's skin liquefied that to be mauled by a tunneler.

This was the only hazard that populated the new world that puzzled Rudolph, he wasn't aware of their origin, and most that knew of them had died long before. All he knew is that they were fast, they traveled in packs, and one should always conserve a single bullet for themselves. The bullet would kill you faster.

Fortunately the stolen robes Rudolph wore blended in adequately with the cliffside, so long as he walked slow and stayed silent; for the time being he was the predator, not the prey.

After a mile he saw a billboard along the horizon. Most were ways of communicating to the old world population, though some modern businesses modified them for their own advertising, it wasn't very profitable, most couldn't read in New Vegas.

He saw movement come from beheath the white colored board, the brown and tan clothes cascading massive shadows against the faded advertisement.

By primal instinct, Rudolph dove into a bush looking over a cliff, providing him more that ample cover and camoflauge from the beings. In this time, diplomacy was a synonym for suicide, you either shot first or died last, feelings could wait until one escaped.

Rudolph's idea of an ambush was erased in a fraction of a second when he focused his masked eyes closer to the beings from afar.

Both beings, assumedly men, wore tan colored military fatigues, thick goggles over balaclavas, and tin helmets strapped to their heads. They were soldiers of the New California Republic.

After the defeat of Caesar's Leigon at the Second Battle for Hoover Dam, and the humiliation of the NCR being denied their victory by demand of the Courier and his Yes Man, the NCR were desperate to reclaim their authority.

The soldiers were forced to abandon their settlements and based in New Vegas by the Courier, but not before they took their vengeance, however petty. The soldiers would wander from settlement to settlement, those owned by the NCR and Leigon alike, raiding the towns for supplies and guns, killing all in their way. None of this was ever reported in New California.

It was a blessing from the gods when the cloud decended upon New Vegas, it was the perfect opportunity for the NCR to reclaim their glory, by whatever means necessary. They slowly reentered the Courier's territory, the Securitrons attention being already spread thin by the infections raging on the Strip.

The NCR had been slowly overtaking the territory ever since, the soldiers were heavily armed and traveled in packs. This made them both dangerous forces, and precious treasures. Those brave enough to risk an ambush upon them could be rewarded with magazine upon magazine of precious ammunition, and ration upon ration of freeze-dried food. Those dumb enough to face them head on became meals for tunnelers, or target practice for the bored soldiers.

Rudolph wasn't immune to such charms, the clips in their belts seduced him with their hopes. He had a difficult choice to make. He could either leave them be, and sneak around them, risking death if caught. Or use the dismembered thigh of his female victim to lure a tunneler to ambush the soldiers for him, then he would only need to face the reptilian beast.

So many magazines, so little time.

The cloud waited for no man.


	3. Praise The Lord, And Pass The Ammunition

Looks Like I'm Going To Hell

By Kachimoochi

Chapter III

Praise The Lord, And Pass The Ammunition

Rudolph lay prone on his stomach, peering through the dark contours of his mask at the two covered soldiers loitering beside the billboard. They were armed with the standard NCR assault rifles and backpacks, no doubt filled with rations, ammunition, and medicine of every kind.

These were the dream targets of survivors in the Dust, simple prey for a desperate hunter, but failure could come with a hefty price to pay.

Whether or not it could be considered weakness, Rudolph had made his decision. He may have been as weak and foolish as the other desperate scavengers that littered the Dust, but the thought of an extra hour of life was too tempting of an offer.

Rudolph stealthily reached around his back and brought his backpack to his front, he was far away enough to not be spotted by the soldiers, who seemed too exhausted to care to notice.

Even before the Dust came, it never made sense to Rudolph why the NCR insisted on wearing such heavy equipment. The former Legion of Caesar could be excused for their metallic armor, as they wore little else, but the NCR spared no expense in their defense. The soldiers of any rank were equipped with a heavy military vest and jacket, padded cargo pants, and a two layered balaclava. This was assumedly to protect from the insectoid hazards and chilly nights in the wasteland, but now it was only a liability.

The true prize in killing an NCR soldier was the cornucopia of loot contained in their vulnerable and bulging knapsacks. The soldiers besides containing ammo for their rifles could contain pistols, MRE's, precious Radaway, or other trinkets looted from murdered inhabitants of the Dust, innocent or otherwise.

The poor foolish soldiers probably assumed their heavy armor and weaponry wound dissuade any scavenger warped from hunger, radiation, or chems from even approaching them, but even they were aware that the most deadly creatures in the Dust could strike without even making a silhouette.

It was these beings that Rudolph would use to dispatch the hapless guards.

From his backpack he pulled the piece of thigh meat he'd been saving for emergencies, and with his other hand equipped the 9mm pistol with four bullets, he didn't plan on using them.

He looked for a spot away from the adjacent road sitting before the soldiers; anyone stupid enough to walk upon it was the purchaser of their own demise. What Rudolph was about to attempt would no doubt be costly, either for his sanity, or for his supplies, or his ever-draining time left to live. The Dust however had no mercy for the struggles of humanity; it would consume all the same, and especially savor their suffering.

The Dust rode ever closer.

Rudolph maneuvered into a crouching position, now exposing his head out of the bush he's been hiding in, and chucked the human flesh into the middle of the road, right in front of the soldiers, almost immediately bringing them out of their sloth, and swinging their rifles to locate the source of the assault.

The soldiers looked at the red meat which lay in the middle of the road in confusion, one soldier tried to approach it, before being pushed in the chest away from the road by his compatriot. These guards were no boy-scouts.

The protector of the soldier motioned for his friend to aim his rifle at the road in preparation, they'd caught on to Rudolph's plan, but they were more interested on the greater threat than the coaxer.

The ground hadn't even begun to shake before sand burst from the road, enveloping the soldier's goggles in a cloud of smoke, to which they responded by backing up closer to the billboard.

A figure erupted from the road, jumping a sizable distance into the sky, before landing and squatting on its hands and feet.

The figure could best be described as a human lizard, though many hadn't lived after viewing one to tell any about it. The head of the creature was formed into a crowned head, with massive pupil-less eyes, and a wide spiked mouth. Its amphibious body lit itself slightly with a green hue through the sand. Still its presence puzzled Rudolph to an extent. He'd never seen a Tunneler alone before, it was too good to be a miracle.

The soldiers had lost all care for the figure that had coaxed the Tunneler from the road; they only quaked in fear before unceremoniously firing their rifles haphazardly. They may have hit the Tunneler at least a dozen times; it did little to faze the underground predator.

The Tunneler leapt from the road and straddled the solder facing the left; he immediately dropped his rifle and tried to protect his face from the slashes of the lizard beast.

The creature pounded its webbed fists into his victim's face and chest, tenderizing his meal before ripping the man's face and balaclava with his razor talons. The opposite soldier backed away quickly and aimed his rifle at the beast and his fellow man. He was certain that neither would survive for much longer.

Screams of desperation and fear and pain echoed the skies of the Dust, but it only mixed with the ones already existing, pain was all that was left in the Mojave Wasteland.

The soldier fired his rifle first at the slaughtered soldier, a single bullet to his slashed and bloody face ended his suffering, but not before attracting the attention of the flesh connoisseur whom had been feasting on the living corpse.

The Tunneler charged the remaining soldier who fired the remaining bullets in the rifle into the beast, each shot capturing its mark. The spray of bullets pierced the chest and legs of the lizard man, which fell onto its stomach. Still not dead, it rose itself on one leg and limped towards the soldier, swinging his bladed left arm in desperation.

Having run out of ammunition, the soldier charged the Tunneler, maneuvering the rifle to its complementary angle, turning it into a club. Making contact with the crowned head, the soldier proceeded to beat the beast to death.

He screamed as he desperately rose and fell his rifle stock into the caved skull of the beast, it had long since died, perhaps he mutilated the corpse out of revenge for his fellow soldier.

The stock of the rifle, though made of plastic, had broken off into the split head of the Tunneler, destroying the rifle, but not stopping the soldier from exacting his revenge, he then proceded to bequeath the remainder of his energy in beating the creature with his gloved fists.

Rudolph took advantage of this emotional display to exit his bush, and approach the soldier. Who was now slowly beating the dead beast, becoming more tired and exhausted with each passing second.

Rudolph saw no reason to shoot the soldier, it would only be a waste of a bullet, he placed the pistol back into its holster and equipped the blade he'd repaired in the warehouse, as savage as it may be, the only logical conclusion was to stab the soldier to death.

The Masked Man appeared behind the solder, who now was bent over the creature, completely spent of energy, vulnerable to the elements.

"He's dead anyways, his rifle's broken, he's tired, the nearest NCR outpost is at least an hour away, he'll never make it, I'm putting him out of his misery" Rudolph tried to mentally justify the gruesome murder he was about to commit.

Perhaps it was Rudolph's curse to have a black and white conscience, he would pay for his transgression; he just had to hope the Devil would come collect later.

Without grace or ceremony, Rudolph sprinted to the soldier, and before he could react, Rudolph threw him on his back, and threw his weight atop him.

Pressing his knee into his stomach, Rudolph used the leverage to lift himself on top of the hopeless soldier, and proceeded to repeatedly stab him in the chest.

Blood sprayed from the multiple wounds penetrating and exiting from the body, the soldier made a crying, screaming, gurgling sound as his life passed away.

Not wanting to drag this out any further, Rudolph finished off the soldier by pressing the rusty blade into the neck of the soldier through the balaclava, brutally ending the final soldier's life.

Rudolph turned off the fresh corpse, he needed to act quickly, Tunnelers usually only responded to the roads, but two corpses in the same area had no doubt attracted the burrowers below.

He turned the corpse over and removed the backpack, before slinging it over his shoulder and padding the jacked for spare ammunition magazines, which bore two magazines of assault rifle ammo.

He then ran to the half-eaten corpse and proceeded to do the same, but not before taking a single second to remark on the work of the lizard burrowers.

"What the hell are these things?" Rudolph questioned internally.

The balaclava of the man had been scraped off alongside much of the soldier's face; the flesh had given way to bone, leaving the face of the soldier in a final, pain-filled cry. Nothing in the Dust was merciful, and as it turned out, neither was Rudolph.

He patted the remainder of the corpse and found a single Stimpack syringe; it had miraculously survived the bladed onslaught from the Tunneler.

Needing to make a hasty retreat, Rudolph carried the two knapsacks, and ran behind the hill with the bush, he didn't worry too much anymore about the Tunnelers, if they were coming, they would prefer two nutritious corpses to risking their already massive numbers in a fight. Chances are they would cannibalize their own fallen brother as well.

Taking a moment to catch his breath, which isn't an easy thing to do when your face is encapsulated in a rusty, metallic face mask and helmet; Rudolph opened the knapsacks with the vigor of a child on Christmas Day. A holiday still celebrated hundreds of years after the end of the world.

The half-eaten soldier's backpack contained a single MRE, five bullets of 9mm ammunition, and two magazines of assault rifle ammo.

The stabbed soldier's backpack contained another MRE, a 9mm pistol without a magazine or ammunition, A syringe of Psycho (no doubt what inspired the soldier's murderous rage), and the most precious gift Rudolph had seen in some time.

An IV bag labeled: Radaway.

Though Dust was more of an overlying concern in the new Wasteland, that didn't mean radiation had dissolved. When the world was destroyed by the flying missiles of Atom, much of the lands were covered in radiation, the only known cure of which was injecting oneself with a cocktail of chemicals colloquially known as Radaway.

Rudolph's rad levels were negligible, according to his Pip-Boy, but he had room to spare in his backpack. There was no such thing as a useless item in the Mojave Wasteland.

He also took his moment to disassemble the newly-acquired 9mm pistol, alongside his own to harvest it for parts. Some rusted bolts and springs were replaces, adding to the overall heath and effectiveness to the weapon.

Totaling in nine bullets, Rudolph felt confident in using it as a main weapon for the time being, to him, stabbing a person to death affected his sanity more that shooting a person in the head.

He wasn't sure why, murder is murder after all.

Gathering the materials into his backpack, he rose to his feet, and took a final look at his handiwork.

By now a group of 5 Tunnelers had surfaced from the same hole in the road as the first had come from. They began to feed on the corpses of the soldiers, and even their own corpse.

It was a sight Rudolph could remember seeing before; it was a somber reminder that humanity was finished. They weren't any longer the top of the food chain, they were dying off. The Dust would cover the Mojave in no time, and perhaps any place Rudolph would wander to.

"What was the point?" Rudolph wondered.

Maybe it didn't matter; maybe all that mattered was lasting one more day.

Spitting in Mother Nature's face one more time.

Or maybe he was afraid.

There would be time to ponder on these topics later, not having any particular destination, Rudolph ventured in the opposite direction of the Tunnelers and the NCR.

He would come to terms with his mind another time; there was work to be done.


	4. Can't Go Forward, Can't Go Back

Looks Like I'm Going To Hell

By Kachimoochi

Chapter IV

Can't Go Forward, Can't Go Back

The cloud was near, too close for comfort. What at first was a distant figure casting a large shadow, which would have provided a loving embrace from the piercing sun, now changed the color of the sky from yellow, to a sickly orange. There was no wind, or rather the wind that was trapped in the dust, it moved slowly, one could feel pockets of air as they walked passed. It was a common clue that the end was near, unless a miracle happened, quickly.

Rudolph walked in a brisk pace, no longer stalking along the hills, but walking almost beside the road. The cloud presented almost a more damming fate than being mauled alive by lizard-men. The prospect of having his skin peeled from his body, and still living to scream about it was incentive enough to find shelter fast.

It was amazing how effective the human mind could work, when death's shadow looms over them. It's amazing how quiet it seems.

Rudolph hoped that his "newly discovered" Pip Boy would guide him around the wasteland with great ease, only to find that the shadow of the cloud rendered it all but a paperweight. Though most things in the wasteland were radioactive, it seemed the pure volume of the cloud, containing god knows what, overloaded the Pip Boy's circuits, deactivating the device.

As if Rudolph needed more incentive to stay as far away from the cloud as possible.

In the plain desert in which Rudolph traveled through, there was no shelter as far as the eye could see. Rudolph began to accept his fate; hiding in a cave would even be preferable to burning alive in the dust. He'd heard rumor that heavy clothing like the NCR armor, or even Ranger Riot Gear was strong and protective enough to assuage the radioactive inferno. Not that it mattered now, scribe robes could hardly protect against mosquitoes, let alone a divine flame.

From the flat, sandy plains, Rudolph set out to the nearby hill formations, in desperate hope to find a cave, so long as he couldn't see the outside world, it could guarantee himself some protection from the dust, he would just have to hold his breath for a long, long time.

As fate would have it, he had no need to.

Rudolph stopped suddenly, wondering in what stood before him was a mirage or a miracle. Obscured by the wind was a curved, grey building appearing to be half-sunken in the ground. It was a bomb shelter, commonly used before the Great War in a futile effort to protect oneself from the ambitions of the dangerous and powerful.

Nowadays, they served a slightly more sinister purpose.

The Brotherhood of Steel were the accepted owners of the shelters now, their armor and lazer weapons being enough to establish and protect their presence. When the NCR made their first assault on The Mojave, they made a point to avoid any bunkers. The last Brotherhood Paladin hadn't been seen since the dust made its first appearance, so they decided to divide and conquer.

This raised some questions to Rudolph: Are they still in there? Did they leave? Will I be shot as soon as I enter?

As Rudolph reminded himself, the prospect of being dissolved instantaneously by a plasma rifle was preferable to walking around with no skin. None in The Mojave would dare risk their lives to help another, but they would actively hunt down Marked Men, maybe to put them out of their misery, or maybe because of superstition.

Rudolph approached the door, turned the wheel as far as it would, and pried the door open. When he entered the shelter, the door loudly closed and locked on its own, all but destroying the prospect of stealth. Rudolph withdrew his 9mm pistol.

The space behind the door was a long, narrow corridor leading further downward into the shelter, obscured by a small ceiling. Rudolph decided to take advantage of the high ground for the time being, and readied his pistol at the unseen space under the lowered ceiling. He had 9 bullets to work with, and the best part was he didn't have to make all of them count. He dug himself into the corner of the doorway, obscuring his figure with a longer part of his cloak, and simply waited.

For minutes on end, no one came, no one spoke, and no one died.

Before Rudolph ventured forward, he noticed something frightening. In the New Wasteland, nothing was very scary, the survivors came to terms with death long before, suicidal power plays were common place, none had much to lose. Snipe a Cazador, why not? Ambush two NCR troopers with a baited Tunneler, been there done that? Try to escape The Mojave, in your dreams?

This was the only thing that gave Rudolph a single iota of fear, and with clear reason. Even within the sealed doorway, one could hear sounds from the outside world. The loud, scraping winds soaring across the desert, Radscorpions performing mating calls, Brotherhood Paladins pacing around the entrance, one could hear all from the door.

But now there was nothing, nothing at all.

This was the most chilling aspect of the cloud; it was the dust ringing the doorbell. When the dust engulfed something, all sound stopped. The wind didn't blow, the creatures died silently, the living hid, and you never knew what was happening.

Silence, something all try to acquire once in their life, now realizing how much of a curse it can be.

Ambient noise is something most don't appreciate until it's gone. When you can't be comforted by the sounds of the world, as hopeless as they are one is forced to make a realization, a painful one.

You are alone, you are all alone.

In another sense of course this was a blessing. After all, when one started to hear again, it was a proof-positive clue that the dust was gone, after hours and hours of painful silence. This time was used by all who found shelter to think, it is the only luxury silence can provide.

Rudolph wished he could say the same, but he was haunted by a presence he didn't understand, and that he'd never seen before.

_Begin Again…In My Mind…_

"N-n-no, no no no no no!" Rudolph silently exclaimed, the phantom had returned.

This was something that plagued the silence, at least for Rudolph. Who was that voice? Where was it coming from? What is it singing?

The female voice sung dreamily, as if from another world, another dimension, another time. She emphasized certain words, and dragged out others, made all the more frightening by a loud echoing crescendo following each line.

Rudolph was desperate now to escape the voice, or at least he would try to make as much noise as possible to drown it out. He charged down the stairs, pistol in hand, in a suicide run to fate.

He didn't care what awaitied him at the bottom, he didn't care is he lived or died, buying even a second of noise to drown out the phantom was worth any risk.

The song wasn't a song, he knew. It was his soul begging him to stop, but he couldn't. He can't live and be happy at the same time.

He ran to the end of the decending corridor to find a single, wide open room, and a lone figure in the corner of it.

He could see the figure plainly through his helmet, he readied his pistol preparing to fire.

His "soon-to-be" victim was a woman around 20 years; her hair was black and short, barely extending past her scalp. Her alabaster face was caked in blood and tears; it also caked her Brotherhood robes, identical to that of Rudolph's. She at first seemed shellshocked, staring at a wall with a scared expression on her face, she wasn't deaf of course, she then turned her head to face the masked demon.

"W-w-wait…ple-ease" she croaked, as if she hadn't spoken in days.

Rudolph couldn't afford the mercy, no one could now.

He had another choice to make, waste a bullet executing her, or using his ol' reliable, his blade.

"Come on, look how she's suffering, let her off easy, she won't even feel it, you can't take the risk" One side of his conscience spoke.

"Bullets are rare, she's a woman, she's small, she's weak, she can't stop you, save your resources, we'll make up for it when we leave, I promise, just don't think about it, stop listening to the song!" The other conscience reasoned.

It was the latter of the two which won the day, as it often did, the former was a relic, a tool from another time, mercy was a liability.

He holstered the pistol, granting the woman a relieved expression; it was only momentary of course. She could have tried to defend herself, if only she'd realized it sooner.

Rudolph sprinted and tackled her, straddling her, he bombarded her with his fists, in both punches and overhead swings.

Her once beautiful face became more broken and bloody with each swing, cries of pain and fear echoed throughout the spacey room. The mask protected a miniscule bit of Rudolph's psyche; any less would have driven him over the edge long ago.

Her bloody and broken face eventually stopped crying and screaming, though it didn't do much to dissuade her assaulter, as he continued his bombardment upon her, completely forgetting about stabbing her.

He took to steadying the remains of her face with his left hand, and putting the full force of his energy into his right fist, continuing the assault on the now, obviously dead woman. He continued for what seemed like minutes, eventually settling into lightly slapping torn flesh from her face, before he fell backwards off of her in exhaustion. He raised his head, to see his unfortunate handiwork.

The being that lied, spread eagle before him could scarcely be believed to ever have been a human, for the remains resembled little of one. The woman's face wasn't a face any longer, but a broken white and tan splatter on the cold concrete floor. Her face appeared split in half, with the left side of her face lacking an eye, most teeth, and a dismembered nose. The only semblance of humanity lay in the right side of her face, which seemed to accept its fate long before its death.

The expression was one of surrender, a neutral expression with glassy eyes and a slight frown, the eye was pointed downward and half-closed. What events could have befallen her to cause her to surrender without as much as a fight? Rudolph tried not to think of such things, they brought no benefit.

But the silence of the dust demanded self-reflection; it seemed to last longer if one didn't obey.

Acquiring some more energy, Rudolph sauntered over to the body to loot it, though the remains were surprisingly profitable.

The corpse retained a Power-fist, rusted with age and only half fueled, a single Fancy Lad snack cake wrapped in newspaper, and a square of sequined, red fabric.


	5. One More Tomorrow

Looks Like I'm Going To Hell

By Kachimoochi

Chapter V

One More Tomorrow

Rudolph stared at the body of the woman once again. By this point the stench had begun to become unbearable, meaning that the prospects of harvesting it for bait had long since past.

Rudolph had been secluded within the bunker for at least a few days, he passed the time by staring at the body, checking his supplies obsessively, and even a few turns crying.

He cried when he began to hear the song again, the seductive tintinnabulation which permeated his demonic helmet, and penetrated his ears with its sharp, dirty feelers. Until it finally reached his brain, in which it bred quickly, corrupting every space and sense with its message, whatever it may mean.

_Where can we go…Where will we find…That we know._

It was apparent to him that the song wasn't real, there was no seductive siren inviting him to eternal damnation, no comforting serenade inviting him back to Civilization, whatever it may be now. It all came from inside his head, as if his brain had long since given up hope, and attempted to commit suicide, to save its sanity from any further atrocities.

The human brain, of course, is incapable of destroying itself; it can only offer its host incentives to give in to its demands. The promise of redemption, forgiveness, honor, guilt, and hope, none of these interested Rudolph. The song now was only a cruel reminder, that only part of his body was attempting to save itself, and the other had given up hope completely.

It was as if his body was so disgusted with itself, it would rather die, betray its biological instincts, and surrender to the unforgiving sands of time and the passage to the unknown, than remain partners with a being who would rather bombard an unarmed woman's face into the hard concrete, than stab them mercifully.

_To let go…Begin…Begin again tonight._

This philosophy was what Rudolph imagined to pass the time, the cloud for now had long since passed, he assumed, but he was in no true hurry. The Mojave wouldn't get any less dangerous, his chances for survival had no chance of improving, and death could afford another tomorrow to claim Rudolph Wallace's life.

When the music would stop, at least for a moment, Rudolph would take advantage of the crescendo to formulate a plan, or at least assess his situation.

He deduced that the dead woman's robes weren't stolen, as he had acquired his robes from a surprise assault on an unarmed Brotherhood of Steel priest, which he was then merciful enough to shoot in the back of the head, ending his life instantaneously.

He could only assume that she was once a member of their nocturnal order, perhaps a scribe, or a paladin, or even a priest. She must have done something worthy of being locked out of the bunker. Did she steal a snack cake? Did she steal the red sequined fabric?

Rudolph fantasized about her circumstances, concluding that her crime for banishment was murder, or something of the sort. He recalled that when she still possessed a face, and head, her face was caked in dry blood, the crimson and black blotches covering up much of her otherwise alabaster flesh.

"What could she have done?" He asked himself.

It did obviously occur to Rudolph that if he hadn't killed her immediately she could have told him her circumstances. Maybe she would have been loyal, helpful, and knowledgeable. She must have been knowledgeable, all Brotherhood of Steel were, and it was part of their culture. Why did he kill her, why didn't he give her a chance? Why? Why?

Just as soon as the question entered Rudolph's conscience, it immediately dissipated to stock rules, pep talks, or other excuses created by his personality to absolve himself for his transgressions.

"How many people have you tried to help before?" He asked himself.

"I don't remember, maybe 3 or 4, like just after the cloud struck" He answered himself.

"What happened?"

"They betrayed me, all of them, they tried to kill me"

"Not stealing? Not running away? Not even using you as bait?"

"No, they all tried to kill me, usually when they thought I was asleep"

"That's right, she'd have been no different, hell, she could have smothered you with that Fancy Lad Snack Cake, stranger things have happened"

"I still feel bad, I thought I stopped feeling that long ago, but it comes back every now and again"

"You mean the song?"

"Well yes, but even when I don't hear it, I still feel bad"

"Don't you get it yet? This is only temporary, I keep telling you this"

"I guess I don't get it"

"When we escape we'll pay back for all of this, we'll adopt orphans, donate caps to charity, and travel educating with the Children of Atom, whatever it takes to forgive yourself. But we'll never get the chance to if you keep getting distracted by your emotions"

"You mean it? No foolin'?"

Rudolph's conscience appeased him for now, but the song would still play, and if it didn't play, Rudolph would whistle or hum it to himself, he didn't know why, but he knew it would happen, he could never forget, and he could never forgive himself, even if he didn't know it yet.

In reality, as this conversation took place, only a few minutes had passed, time was of no deficit in the Mojave, everything held it in abundance. Rudolph decided finally that he'd stalled himself enough. He accepted that he'd commit more sins again and again in order to survive and escape the Mojave. He'd tell himself that he'd make up for it someday, helping others to make up for the murder, but he had to focus now.

"How will I do it?" Rudolph pondered.

There were only a handful of ideas Rudolph possessed to escape the hell he resided in. The first idea was to fly out. There were a number of flying vessels in the Mojave, the NCR and Brotherhood remnants were in possession of Vertibirds, the flying machines used by each military to transport whatever was needed. He didn't know how to fly one, or much less how to get to one, but it was still an option.

Another was to escape the Mojave was less appealing, but just as available nevertheless. It was the trade route through Zion. The path was used for generations by traders patronizing the tribes populating the plateaus and canyons containing the land of Zion. Though it seemed safe, as much of the land was separated from the cloud's influence, it was equally as dubious. There was absolutely no information that passed through the trail now. Those that entered never returned, and those that arrived never told of what they escaped from. Rudolph would have to prepare not only for a week long journey on foot, but also be well armed for whatever waited on the other side.

The final option was tantamount to an oasis within a minefield. The final option is the tunnels leading away from New Vegas. The tunnels were no man's land for all the warring and competing factions frivolously vying for control of the cursed land, for pride, land, money, or otherwise. What lay inside could only be traps or ambushes seeking gullible prey to exploit and kill. Even if one was lucky enough to find a tunnel not claimed by the NCR, Tribals, Kings, Ghouls, Marked, or Mercenaries, they would still be dead in no time flat.

The tunnelers had also made much of the tunnel their home, being so close to the underground of course. This also presented an opportunity to cause distractions, at least at a heavy risk to the deceiver. This would always be the final resort, namely because none had ever accomplished it before.

Rudolph decided to try and locate a Vertibird as his primary source of escape, it presenting the least amount of risk after all. The forces which possessed anti-aircraft were miniscule, meaning Rudolph could escape in the quickest and bloodless way possible, if indeed he could figure out how to operate such a vessel.

He imagined that one could be located only at a military base, meaning getting to one would be no picnic. He would need to acquire more ammo, materials to repair the bird if necessary, food, and most importantly, education on how to fly such a contraption.

It also dawned on him that an entire fleet of Vertibirds existed on the New Vegas Strip, used for visiting dignitaries of Mr. House, or visitors to the NCR embassy, back when it still existed. Going there was at least for now out of the question for the time being however.

Whatever happened to cause the cloud, or the chaos which now engulfed the Mojave begun within the Strip. It was there that the cloud first appeared, after mysteriously disappearing from the Sierra Madre and as far as anyone could tell there was no entrance or exit.

When news of the cloud spread, the NCR and Tribals wasted no time in preparing assaults and sieges to the private community. Those able to get through the defenses were met with the still functioning Securitrons, which met the soldiers with rocket fire and submachine gun spread. Since then, most of the armies gave up on the Strip for now, the cloud surrounding New Vegas permanently, only spreading itself to wreak havoc on the remaining beings within the Mojave.

Rudolph couldn't remember the Mojave as well as he could, suffering from amnesia and all. Though the Strip was the only certain location of a Vertibird he could recall, he decided the risk wasn't worth it. He would take to wandering the wasteland until he happened upon more NCR soldiers. He wouldn't attack them, but rather stalk their patterns and trance their steps back to their base, which they must report to eventually.

It was hardly different than his original objective of wandering the Mojave for safety, but it was all exacerbated by the omnipresent existence of the orange-red cloud of dust which razed the grounds of whatever it crossed, warping everything it touched.

It was certainly suicide, but it wasn't as if all of Rudolph was committing to living in the first place.

The plan was ready, and so was Rudolph. He rose himself from his seated position on the floor, and walked to the corridor leading up the stairs to the Mojave, departing the locked bunker and mutilated corpse he'd created.

But just as he crossed the first step, he immediately enacted a double take, noticing something he hadn't seen before. The visual culprit in question was a brown door, between the side wall of the bunker, and just in front of the still rotting corpse of the Scribe woman. It wasn't there in the first place, Rudolph was certain of that, but then what was it.

He stalked closely and slowly to it, stepping over the corpse, and gently gripping the golden handle connected to the regular wooden door. He opened it.

What lay inside was an exact copy from what he'd encountered before he left the warehouse he had awoken in. The entire room, if it was a room, was pitch black. The only semblance of light being that of a drooping light bulb, highlighting a jukebox in the middle of the room.

But unlike the first time, no music played, no seductress sung, and no lights shone. It was just a dark abyss containing a jukebox, and yet it was the same as before.

Rudolph could hazard an idea of what this could mean, and if it meant what he thought it did, he needed to find help for himself, and fast.

He exited the space between spaces, stepped over the corpse again, and traveled up the stairs slowly and deliberately. As he stomped up the metallic stairs, he shouted inside his head to deny what he'd seen, or to calm himself.

Without even peeking through the vault door, to make certain the dust was long gone, Rudolph twisted the wheel, and pushed the door open with great force, and strode in any direction he felt, still shouting to himself.

"Begin…Begin…Begin…STOP IT!... Again…Again…Again"


	6. Jailhouse Rock

Looks Like I'm Going To Hell

By Kachimoochi

Chapter VI

Jailhouse Blues

The Masked Man charged out of the underground bunker with little ceremony. He tilted and gyrated his body in a temporary craze, unable to control his thoughts. His hands gripped his armored head as he shook it to and fro, desperately trying to drown out the sound.

"Get out of my head!" Randolph shouted, still shaking his cranium, trying desperately to deafen himself from the sound.

Any being that may have witnessed such an act would have thought that Randolph had completely lost his sanity, they wouldn't be far off, but there was still more to come. Shake after shake, jerk after jerk, eventually the seductive melody began to wade, and the silent hum of the Mojave wasteland returned to his senses.

Randolph momentarily collapsed onto the sandy concrete below, knowing he had to focus quickly, less he attract an amphibious predator never too far away. He repeated a mantra consisting of "It's not real", "You must focus", and "It's almost over". He didn't know if he was telling the truth, but it seemed as if Randolph and his brain were two foreign beings, and it seemed that his brain was more gullible and weaker than he was, but not by much.

He rose to his feet, his vision still adjusting to the blinding light of the wasteland. He was surprised that the sun bared down so powerfully as it did. Randolph turned his head to his right and viewed the source of his fortune, the large mass which permeated the atmosphere, the cloud was now trailing west. It wasn't likely he'd encounter it for a few days at most, meaning he could keep moving as quickly as he could.

He thought back to the moments he spent in the hidden bunker, scheming a plan for a definite escape, before being bombarded with the horrific figments of his warped imagination. He recalled the plans he surmised: escape in a Vertibird, escape through the land of Zion, or escape through the sewer system. The first two being one and a million shots, and the final being a suicide mission. He also recalled that he settled on locating a Vertibird as his primary objective.

By this point, fragments of Randolph's memory were returning, more often than not mere memories of cooking, walking, or talking to unknown figures. Upon a minute or two of contemplation, Randolph scoured his remaining memories to find a Vertibird. From what he could recall, both the NCR and The Brotherhood of Steel both used Vertibirds, though all had been retired because of the cloud, but The Brotherhood's had been retired long since.

He could remember that the New Vegas Strip possessed a few Vertibirds, used both by the NCR embassy and honorary guests of the 3 Tribes. Randolph decided that he would seek a vessel from the NCR, though he hadn't seen once ever since he had awoken. The Dust obscured everything in its path, either slicing the flesh of living beings, or rusting the metal which constituted the sophisticated flying vessel.

Knowing that at least once Vertibird resided somewhere in the Strip, he decided that he had to venture to the center of the Cloud, the final circle of Hell. He didn't remember what entirely became of the Strip, but he did know that the cloud never left it, it was eternally surrounded by the orange-red death, guarded by the fleshless madmen. All that distinguished the once bustling, secluded city was the massive spire reaching out only slightly further than the apex of the cloud.

The Lucky 38's top penthouse was the only marker to New Vegas, an unreachable refuge trapped in the wasteland within a wasteland.

One simply couldn't walk into the Strip. Even if one fought past the raiders and cannibals populating the roads to there, they would need a way to protect their body from the eternal cloud covering the entire city. Not to mention weapons and ammunition to handle any threats inside or outside, alive or reanimated, hostile or friendly.

Randolph climbed the exposed portion of the hidden bunker, at least 10 feet above the sandy ground, to use as a vantage point. From this spot he could note a large building on the horizon, displaying a spiral contraption protruding from its side. He noticed a lonesome building surrounded by fences of barbed wire, and watchtowers surrounding it. Finally, he noticed a collection of fences, and small houses, he could scarcely remember that it was a town he'd visited before, but he couldn't remember its name.

Randolph decided that the greatest idea would be to head to the lonesome building contained by barbed fences, which rather resembled a prison. He walked peacefully in the direction of the building, passing through mountainous passages, rather than taking the direct route, as he imagined the exposed road leading to it was lined with either Tunnelers or booby traps.

Along the way Randolph gripped his 9mm pistol, he could scarcely remember how much ammunition he'd collected, but he knew it was substantial enough to be liberal with his shooting. Though his mind seemed always to be preoccupied with survival or decreasing sanity, he was amazed that his backpack could carry as much as it could. It wasn't special, perhaps pilfered off of the corpse of an NCR soldier or some such, but it seemed to be lined with countless compartments, capable of carrying no end of trinkets, items, and weapons.

Deep within the hidden recesses of Randolph's mind, he could have sworn he'd heard the woman begin to sing within his ear once more. He froze in his tracks and slung his backpack on the ground and opened the main compartment, frantically searching for something. Within seconds he'd located it, a travel-sized bottle of White Wine, without ceremony he yanked the cap off with his teeth and sucked the bottle, creating a vacuum as he guzzled the intoxicating beverage.

And then, almost as if chemically intended, the mysterious woman's voice ceased singing, and Randolph was at peace once more. This wasn't the first time he'd heard her voice before, but it was the first time she'd ever lingered. She began her ballad as a simple hum, staying in Randolph's ear for less than a second, only confusing him. Now she sung entire operas, driving him to the brink.

The only cure, or rather concession which was effective against the song was liquor, any kind, any sort, sometimes a bottle, sometimes a sip, Randolph never could tell but it never failed. He was running dry, the small bottle was his emergency source, when he needed to focus, and the villainess presented herself, he needed to act fact, he needed to scavenge like he'd never scavenged before.

Randolph approached the edge of the mountain, facing the edge of the cliff, believing that he could maneuver himself down either by sliding of by shimmying. Firstly however, he laid himself prone on the edge and equipped a service rifle he'd pilfered from the NCR soldier he'd trapped. It was in poor condition, but he didn't plan to snipe with it, conveniently this rifle was equipped with a scope. He put the stock of the rifle to his shoulder, and placed his eye to the scope, aiming it at the 4 watch towers surrounding the prison complex.

Through the scope, he noticed only two men manning 2 watchtowers, each facing the opposite direction of Randolph, how convenient. Their appearance was filthy and feral, their hair was overgrown, stretching out in wet strands across their faces. Their skin was colored in crimson, no doubt from blood, this made their identities obvious as well, they were cannibals.

Down below, in the courtyard of the complex, he noticed about 5 or so convening with one another around a barrel-fire. The 3 men and 2 women differed from the watch guards, as they were clothed in a sort of armor, or rather prison guard uniforms. The only weapons he could see on them were knives and spears, but they may have had concealed pistols as well.

There were 3 buildings which constituted the prison, which also meant untold numbers of cannibals lay within. Randolph took careful thought if the prospect of charging in the base of cannibals would prove fruitful, but then again, what else would he do?

Randolph, still out of sight of the watch guards, slid ever so carefully down the cliff and to the bottom of the road. It never ceased to amaze him how effective his scribe robes were at camouflaging himself to the Mojave surroundings, but it also meant he couldn't take much punishment. As his feet made contact with the ground, he carefully scanned the ground through his mask, looking for any carefully hidden land mines along the road.

A tunnel of fences lay between the outside world and the prison of, well…prison. The very lax security of the cannibals unnerved Randolph, it seemed almost as if they wanted their prison to be invaded, maybe that's what they're counting on. Randolph crossed the threshold of the wired tunnel until he was face to face with the main door to the prison office. Still not being spotted, Randolph took this opportunity to rest for a minute, as well as arm himself with his weapons, expecting a brutal and fast massacre.

He opened his backpack to check his inventory, his immediate weapons were naturally his pistol, his knife, the NCR rifle, and a single stick of dynamite. He had plenty of ammo for the rifle, so he intended to use it primarily, along with his knife for close quarters combat. It this truly wasn't a trap, then he did indeed possess the element of surprise.

Randolph reached into another compartment of his backpack and withdrew an old lighter, flicked the top off and activated the dim flame. He equipped the dynamite and lit the fuse, then with the full strength of his body he kicked the door of the prison in and threw the stick blindly. He shut the door closely after in effort to maximize the confusion, he prayed that there were beings inside the building, lest he lose an entire strategy and otherwise lure the entire prison to his position.

He heard the dynamite explode, and thankfully, followed by cries of pain and anguish immediately afterwards. Randolph charged the prison door, knife in his left hand, and rifle in his right, his clenched left hand supporting the barrel of the rifle. Two cannibals ran out of the nearby coffee stand and were shot down immediately with five shots of the rifle. At least 4 more cannibals were still alive, some with arms and legs missing, crying and screaming on the ground, victims of Randolph's surprise.

Leaving the injured to fester, Randolph sprinted through the small building, checking the corners of every section meticulously, until his search proved fruitless, everybody was taken care of. Then, he picked up a table, in what he assumed was either the lobby or the commissary of the prison and jammed it against the exit door leading to the general population of the outside prison.

Randolph was safe for the moment, hearing confused sounds from the outside of the prison, it wouldn't be long until the outside cannibals tried to force their way into the lobby, so Randolph needed to act fast. The cries of the dying still aired though the building, the victims still hadn't died of their wounds, so Randolph showed them his version of mercy, by stabbing them incessantly with his rusty knife. It sickened him every time he was forced to hear the gurgling sound of blood filling their throats and lungs as he stabbed them, and he could only imagine the female singer was reveling in it nevertheless.

They died painfully, but now they were silent, and Randolph could pilfer in relative peace. Could it be that the dynamite didn't attract as much attention as he thought? He chose to be swift in his scouring regardless. He checked the corpses firstly, not finding any ammunition or armor, as they had been near naked cannibals. He then searched the cabinets and rooms of the lobby, resulting in a single chemical bag of Radaway, and 4 bullets of .44 ammunition. Randolph was especially pleased that he'd cleared the lobby with such ease, only costing him 5 bullets of his two magazines of assault rifle ammunition.

What lay behind the door leading to the general population would be the worst of what he had to face, Randolph imagined. The watch guards undoubtably held snipers, not to mention the armored cannibals which must have heard the explosion. He tried to remember the layout of the prison on the outside, and endeavored to charge to the side of the prison, taking cover behind the hard, metallic walls. If they had no guns than they would most likely charge him, allowing him to bottle-neck them in the space between the prison and the fence and pick them off at his leisure. If they had guns, the prison would make for excellent cover.

Randolph removed the table from the door, and charged it open as he had the first. Ignoring the guards which were slowly approaching the sound they'd heard; Randolph ran behind the prison obviously attracting the attention of the cannibals. The cannibals shouted amongst themselves, with two of them taking cover behind a barrel and a picnic table respectively. Randolph hid behind the corner of the prison, staring out at some charging cannibals.

"What the hell is that thing?" One of them shouted in cover.

"It's a demon, I'm outta here!" Another bellowed as she fled.

"Looks like dinner to me!" A manic guard yelled, the psycho getting to her head.

Randolph noted that the "demon" comment was related to his mask, he never imagined that he could use such a device as a scare tactic. He thought back to the NCR soldier he stabbed and beat, and the defenseless woman he pummeled into giblets, het last thing they saw was a horned demon smashing them to death, how horrifying he thought.

The cannibal on Psycho was the first to charge Randolph's position, dropping her knife and equipping a knife spear as she sprinted to the edge of the prison, high and powerful. As she turned the corner, leading behind the edge 6 shots rang out, 4 hitting her armor and two exploding her bald head. Her body fell away from the edge with the force of the bullets, the headless corpse drawing screams and gasps from the cannibals.

Two of the armored men took up their own knife spears and foolishly charged Randolph's position, perhaps expecting their numerical advantage to even the odds of an assault rifle. They soon exposed themselves behind the edge of the prison, suddenly freezing in sight of the rifle meeting their gaze. Randolph fired with savant-like accuracy, firing anther 6 bullets into the legs and head of the cannibal on the left. Randolph wouldn't have known it, but the computer device on his wrist was in part responsible for his accuracy, the mechanism stimulating certain nerves in his brain, as if the Pip-Boy was doing all the aiming for him. Randolph may have figured this out, if he even understood the wrist-mounted device in the first place.

The remainder of the clip of ammo was emptied into the leg of the attacker on the right, when disaster struck. After the final volley of fire, the service rifle broke apart in the hands of the Masked Man, stunning Randolph, and dismembering the left leg of the cannibal. The cannibal fell to the crying in pain, clutching the shattered remains of his left femur, crying and bleeding. Still having the stock of the rifle intact, he kicked the cannibal to the side of the prison and proceeded to bash his head in with the stock. Once, then twice, then thrice, and then Randolph lost count, slamming the broken wooden handle into the now broken fragments of his cranium. Randolph intentionally did this for two purposes, firstly to kill the cannibal, and secondly to preserve the armor he wore.

The battle had entered a standstill, neither the snipers of the remaining guard in cover fired upon Randolph's position, leaving him to drag the bodies of the slaughter behind the lobby, to pilfer. He took the armor from his bludgeoned victim, which was pristine save for being covered in sand and crimson fluid. From the gunshot victims, he collected 3 bullets of .308 ammunition, as well as 3 Stimpacks. Not hearing any movement, he quickly discarded his scribe robes and slipped the "bulletproof" armor over the primary scribe shirt. Conveniently, it fit perfectly, after he scraped the blood off the side of the prison wall. Afterward he re-equipped the robe, now feeling much more heated in the desert climate, but still a bit safer.

For a minute or two, all was silent, the guard in cover, the guard cowering behind a picnic table, and the two watchtower snipers kept their eyes glued to the edge. They watched as Randolph tossed the robbed corpses out into the open, once of which didn't have any clothes on. Randolph was now unarmed, at least under these long-range circumstances. Luckily, the cannibals didn't notice the 6-inch wooden shard sticking out of the naked man rotting in the open, meaning he once again held the element of surprise.

Now that there had been a "cease fire" or sorts, Randolph had a minute or two to make another plan, and the best part of all. The female voice was still silent.


	7. Today I'm Facing The World

Looks Like I'm Going To Hell

By Kachimoochi

Chapter VII

I'm Facing The World, And I'm Gonna Survive

Time passed rapidly in Rudolph's mind, although it couldn't have moved slower in the real world.

He still hid behind the edge of the prison lobby wall, holding his 9mm pistol in his right hand, and his rusty blade in his other, just waiting. He made a mental collection of the one's he'd kill, and figured that only 4 remained on the outside.

Every minute or so a bullet would splatter a bit of adobe against his shoulder, as the watchtower snipers gave a pot shot here and there. The cannibal who hid behind a picnic table would shout obscenities at Randolph every minute or so, keeping his homemade SMG trained on the corner of the lobby.

The final cannibal covered behind her own picnic table, hyperventilating and clutching a knife to her chest. None of the tribal survivors had ever seen such ferocity and accuracy. They would routinely raid travelling merchants, the few that would pass, suffering no casualties in the slightest. Yet, the masked, horned beast had forced their way into their compound and began slaughtering them mercilessly.

Rudolph didn't want to wait any longer, especially since he was becoming much sweatier due to the heavy armor. He opened his backpack once again looking for something, anything. Alas it was not to be, the only weapon he had was his trusty pistol, in addition to his rusty blade and a knife spear he'd taken from one of the fresh kills.

He had a desperate plan; it wasn't one he imagined would end well. He'd imagined he'd charge the covered cannibal with the SMG, before immediately hiding behind his picnic table from the watchtower guards. The only logic Randolph could offer to his cause was his new found armor and iron helmet, his limbs however, were completely defenseless.

The only other option he'd thought of was charging back into the lobby, but then it'd still be a waiting game. The other cannibals obviously feared him too much to charge in after him, meaning he'd have to take the initiative. He'd come this far; it isn't as if this wasn't a suicidal plan in the first place.

Rudolph charged from his corner, not stopping or slowing, and zig zagging as much as he could manage. While he sprinted wildly, he fired his pistol at the covered cannibal's position, keeping him pinned down. The covering cannibal froze for her life, praying to Caesar's ghost that he didn't notice her. The tower guards fired their varmint rifles fruitlessly, only hitting the spaces in front or behind the charging beast.

He curved his path from the other wise zig zagged position until he faced the back of the picnic table. Though Rudolph fired his pistol it wasn't enough to dissuade the cannibal, as he'd already entered his fight or flight, it was obvious which he chose. His SMG fired 5 bullets before jamming, 2 of which made contact with Rudolph's body.

One bullet penetrated his chest, pushing the masked man backwards slightly, but not before the second bullet made its impact. The final shot made its mark upon Rudolph's left arm, straight through his bicep. The covered cannibal didn't pay attention to his accuracy, rather he desperately tried to pry a bullet casing from it's exit port, causing the jam.

Rudolph turned his head to the sky, uttering a scream so violent and fearsome. His yell shook the entire compound, mostly as it was amplified by the mask, directed by the small holes in the eyes of the masks. Tears fell from the cowering cannibal's eyes, forgoing the belief that their attacker was at all human, he just couldn't be. The SMG totting cannibal froze stiff, hands not registering to his brain's commands.

He screamed for the entire Mojave to hear, the pain not even affecting him much, he didn't know why he bellowed. Rudolph felt blood boil and sear his skin, turning his thoughts and bruised wound black, and dark. The watchtower guards weren't fazed by the far away kerfuffle, and continued to inaccurately fire their rifles regardless, to little avail.

Rudolph came to his senses, and he even realized that though his left arm had since fallen limp, his fist still gripped the blade tightly. The now uncovered cannibal simply stared at the demon before him, he just couldn't accept that he was a human, he just couldn't. It wasn't void of logic, many things had been mutated, it wasn't beyond reason that Rudolph hadn't suffered a similar fate, though he couldn't remember it.

Instinctively, Rudolph raised his right arm, containing his pistol and shot the cannibal point blank in his face, felling him instantaneously. The cannibal didn't even submit a final conflict, he just stood there in awe. Rudolph wouldn't know it, but he reminded the cannibal of someone he once knew, a warrior which would slay his enemies with a ferocious blade, a warrior who wore a similar mask as his murderer did. It would be his final thought that he'd meet his previous ally once again, perhaps it was his destiny to fall at the hands of Mars.

The picnic table was nearby another prison building, which he also took cover behind the corner of. He didn't realize the covering cannibal behind him, she wasn't camouflaged, her pink mohawk made her extremely visible. The pain of Rudolph's arm must have driven his mind into its survival mode, only focusing on the most dangerous threats.

Imagining that he'd fallen once again into a stale mate, Rudolph once again reached into his backpack and withdrew two syringes of Stimpaks. The proper procedure of administering a Stimpak was firstly that it couldn't be used by the injured, as it couldn't be properly applied. Secondly, the patient must be either sedated or bound, as the injection caused excruciating pain as the artificial biotics rebuilt the injured tissue.

Nobody followed proper procedure in the wasteland, as one could well imagine. Thus, Rudolph stabbed the syringe directly into his injured arm, just above the bullet wound, eliciting a massive roar of misery and agony. It would be this bellow which inspired fear in the snipers, they could here it certainly now.

Rudolph fell to his knees behind the wall of the second building, wailing and gyrating in pain. To the covering cannibal, which he still hadn't noticed, it appeared as if a demonic force was entering the demon before her, it was obvious now more than ever that the figure before her wasn't of this world.

He could feel every skin cell repopulate his flesh, and every vein reanimate itself, coiling around his muscles, which were also being rebuilt. It was unimaginable pain, but it could cure almost anything, save for a broken or missing limb. Unfortunately, as Randolph respected the wound, it still appeared bruised and exposed, meaning that another syringe must be administered, causing Rudolph to moan in anticipation.

The process was repeated again, eliciting yet another screech and below from the demon. When he checked the second time the bruise was completely gone, it was as smooth and flawless as the day he was born. The brand-new skin and veins stood apart from the dirt and grime covered flesh surrounding it. Randolph couldn't remember the last time he'd ever washed himself, even before his memory loss. The fresh skin contrasted with his ordinary rough and scaly flesh, meaning it couldn't have been recently.

Minutes passed as it had before, and Randolph returned his attention to the snipers, who much like himself had accepted the respite. They were turned away from his view, cleaning their rifles or repairing them. Where others saw impossible odds, Randolph saw opportunity.

They had been firing at Randolph nonstop for at least as long as the 10-minute-long assault had lasted. This meant that the snipers must be sitting on piles of ammunition for their rifles, and perhaps even a repair kit or two. This would be momentous for the Masked Man; he'd no longer have to conduct suicide charges at more heavily armored adversaries. He'd become an expert at forming long-distance relationships, if only he could get ahold of their Varmint rifles.

Realizing that the snipers likely still knew he was hidden behind the new building, he made a rush for the closest watch tower, as silently as possible. He reached the foot of the closer tower, not noticing a change in the snipers' behavior, he basked momentarily in his stealthy maneuver, before turning back to the task at hand.

He slowly made his way up the revolving staircase which constituted the only avenue leading to the tower. It wasn't as stealthy as he'd hoped, as the old-world lumber squeaked and moaned as he put even the slightest amount of pressure upon it. This attracted the attention of the snipers momentarily, though they were more preoccupied with the demon which hid in the shadows of the cell hall.

Realizing that he'd couldn't continue the stealthy approach, Rudolph once again decided to use his method of semi-success: suicide charge. Thus, he continued, Rudolph charged up the stairs post haste, needing to act fast to beat the sniper's reaction time. To continue a string of coincidences, the sniper lay prone on his stomach aiming his rifle at the building, searching for a single inch of the demon. He was so focused he couldn't react fact enough to the approaching figure in time to fight them back.

Wanting to conserve his energy, Rudolph simply shot the sniper in the back of his head, just as he was about to rise from his stomach. The bullet entered his skill and severed his spinal cord, for the first time in what seemed like forever, Randolph committed a painless murder. This was one of the original tribal warriors which Rudolph noticed through his binoculars.

The corpse's body was heavily decorated in tattoos and piercings, in addition to a singular loincloth serving as his armor. More importantly, Rudolph turned his attention to the miniature armory which constituted the sniper's nest. As if by divine intervention, the other sniper in the opposite tower didn't remove his eye from his scope, perhaps figuring that the bullet he heard was from his compatriot in the other tower.

Rudolph couldn't believe his luck, which all things considered, seemed to revolve around him on a constant basis. This equally gave him the freedom to search the tower in relative peace. He firstly turned his attention to the sniper rifle, or more accurately Varmint rifle he'd pilfered. It was in decent condition, and better yet, contained an attached scope. The best news of all was the amount of ammunition he found.

The rifle already took the same ammunition he had for his broken service rifle, but he found two entire clips worth of 5.56 ammunition within the tower. Rudolph also took for himself another weapon: The Flare Gun. He didn't imagine he'd have much use for it, but it was small, light, and could use most sorts of fuel.

Rudolph decided to throw caution to the wind, or rather capitalizing on his positive fortune, as he'd put it. He equipped the worn, wooden rifle and assumed the position of the Tribal he'd executed. He didn't know if he'd wielded such a weapon before he lost his memory, but his body assumed such a natural position almost instinctively. Finding confidence in his ability, he took aim at the sniper in the other tower and focused hard.

Feeling that his aim was true, Rudolph held his breath and squeezed the trigger. The shot rang relatively silently, but still loudly audible. The shot penetrated the cannibal's head, splattering it into dozens of pieces, and causing his body to turn limp. He dropped his varmint rifle onto the ground below, Randolph prayed that it wasn't beyond disrepair.

Rudolph abandoned the watchtower in exchange for the next, now walking instead of creeping or running. He picked up the dropped varmint rifle, and whilst it was indeed broken, he harvested certain sections to repair his own. His varmint rifle was now in tip top shape, and he always had a repair kit to spare as well.

He climbed, searched, and departed the watchtower, only bothered by the flies starting to feed upon the rotting meal Rudolph created for them. His investigation bore surprising results, for he found a Police pistol: a .357 revolver used by the enforcers of the old world. It was much better than usual revolvers Randolph remembered coming across, as all the bullets could be loaded at once, instead of one by once. With all that had happened, Rudolph couldn't believe his fortune.

He found a few more objects of interest up there as well, mainly a small collection of bobby pins, a dozen or so rounds of .357 ammunition, and packaged food and water, he was careful to avoid the suspicious pies covered in paper, he remembered hearing rumors about them, and he wasn't close to desperation any longer.

As he made his way to the second building, which he would come to find as the main prison hall, he noticed a twitching object in his line of sight. He at first imagined it to be a mirage, or his sanity playing games with him, but as he ventured closer, he proved himself wrong. Hidden behind the edge where he'd once hidden, and behind a small picnic table, was an armored, pink mohawked, female cannibal. Twitching and sobbing in fear as she huddled herself into the fetal position.

She stared at the armored, tall, masked demon draped in a messy, tattered brown cloth approach her, still slowly. Her heart thumped ever so slowly with each passing step. She'd seen a figure like him before, but it was a man she'd long thought dead. In her previous tribe, she'd catch glimpse of a man with a mask almost identical to his, returning from conquest after conquest. He was the main enforcer of her tribe, a merciless killer, thought to be bulletproof and invincible.

But he was long since dead, or so she heard. The cloud had brought life to more powerful beings long since though dead, so it didn't seem so illogical, not that it would matter much longer.

Rudolph thought to himself what he should do. He imagined that his classic form of execution, beating their skull to pieces would only encourage the singer to take his sanity, and after all, he wasn't strapped for resources as he once was.

In an unexpected form or mercy, Randolph drew his newly acquired police pistol and fired it at the cowering woman. Her huddled form made it difficult for an instant kill, but Randolph wouldn't blame himself for that fact. The first round lodged itself in her left shoulder, making a large crunching echo as the bullet dislodged her humorous.

She didn't even flinch, in a cosmic sense she was grateful, to die at the hands of the Legate Lanius was an honor that hundreds were blessed with, but few deserved. She was content to die at the hands of the resurrected being, or perhaps the imposter, to her living would only bring her more pain. She took solace in the fantasy from her previous existence, it would all be over soon.

A second shot lodged itself into her collar bone, severing veins and arteries as shattered calcium tore her apart from the inside. A third and final shot met her skull, putting the poor woman out of her misery. Blood trickled out of the exposed portion of her skull, much of her cheek and cranium being blown through the fence behind her. Such an act puzzled Rudolph that such a savage act was what he considered mercy; it just didn't make any sense to him.

He'd murdered at least dozen lives, and who knows how many before he lost his memory, it all just seemed to blend together. Randolph questioned himself as he viewed the carnage he caused, the destruction he'd wrought.

What would this mean when he escaped? How could he move on? How could he Begin Again?

He'd slaughtered people intimately and violently, and yet he expected himself to change at the drop of a dime when he reached Civilization, whatever that was now. How could he live in a house, in a community, be trusted? How could he live with himself?

"It'll all be over soon" Rudolph would tell himself.

"We'll make up for it, all of it" He recited.

"We'll change, but we have to survive first" He whispered.

Just as he pondered that thought, as he stared at the flowing blood and calcium pieces from his most recent kill, a shot rang out. Rudolph took cover behind the main prison, frantically searching for flickers of light or tracing bullets. His search was fruitless, no such force made itself present, and as he thought more of it, he realized that the shot came from inside the building.

He entered the building as quietly as possible, entering the corridor leading to general population. The building was absent of any sound, as well as any valuables, most of the building had been picked clean ages ago. None of this compared to what he discovered as he ventured passed the cells.

As Rudolph turned his masked head, he was met with the most gruesome scene he'd ever saw. Across the floors and beds of each individual cell, bodies littered every square inch. Corpses of every color and size were stacked upon one another, blood flowing from each, coagulating on the floor.

The bodies were missing their genitals and heads, their limbs and other flesh still connected. Rudolph had heard talk of the savage people-eaters, but he'd never imagined they could be so sickening. This wasn't a prison; this was a slaughter house.

As he peered over the railing of the towering cells, he noticed many hot plates and fuel peppering the ground below. Pots, pans, plates, silverware, even spices were littered throughout cabinets and desks. This was their mess hall apparently, their meals cooked freshly and accordingly.

He noticed a particularly long wire leading to a white box in the corner of the hall. Inside were frozen limbs and body parts. Flesh was stacked in old world bags, covered in either blood or salt. They were preserved for weeks and months at a time. Rudolph wondered how they kept such a supply; he'd hardly met a living person in the orange wastes. Where did they receive their supply?  
Rudolph wasn't a fool, and he did remember many things as time passed. He imagined that a Human farm wouldn't be fruitful, the cannibals didn't seem like the sort to wait 9 months for a delicacy. He supposed they went on raiding campaigns, capturing killed soldiers and civilians alike. It didn't seem likely that the otherwise naked cannibals would attempt to kidnap meals from the NCR, but they were the only source of new meat he could think of.

A single room existed connected by a staircase, which Rudolph climbed with precision. He had his newfound police pistol in hand, still on the defensive for the rogue shot he'd heard. As he approached the room, he imagined that it was the Warden's office, as it contained various file cabinets and desks. Old world terminal computers littered the desks, as well as random papers and desk toys.

A dead body sat in the back of the room, sitting in a comfy chair, a 9mm pistol in their hand. The room was completely lifeless, or so it seemed, Rudolph assumed the male cannibal committed suicide rather than face him. It made sense, behind the main desk and chair was a massive window, though cloudy and dusty, one could see the entirety of the courtyard.

The very same which Rudolph had committed his greatest massacre thus far.

A note written with a quill of all things lied on the desk before the corpse, written with blood in place of ink, which was in a surplus. Rudolph didn't recognize much of the writing, but it seemed so similar. It used the same words as the language he spoke, and was displayed on his Pip-Boy, but was written out of order. Each word ended in -vius or -ion, which triggered a flashback in Rudolph's memory.

It was a new language created by a tribe in the Mojave wasteland. A tribe of militaristic nomads, centralized on a lone island within the desert. They based their culture off of that of an ancient Human civilization, but Rudolph couldn't recall what they were called. He remembered that they dressed in red, and wore clothes made of animals, but could scarcely remember why he knew of them.

He remembered that almost every tribe in the wasteland dissolved when the mythical cloud made its debut. He remembered seeing mass exoduses from large settlements, some leaded by the NCR, and come in escape from them. Rudolph was plagued with mental pictures of men dressed in checkered suits, leather jackets, and strange, identical blue jumpsuits.

Rudolph decided to reminisce about his past life, what he could remember, later. For the time being he looted the corpse, which he assumed to be the leader of the tribe. He found a small collection of bottle caps, a useless commodity, but unique nevertheless, he took them. He also harvested the ammunition from his suicide weapon to add to his ever-growing arsenal.

Not finding anything else of interest, Rudolph departed the fenced complex. He hadn't found anything to assist in his odyssey, no Hazmat suit, no fuel, and no books. It wasn't a massive waste of time, he'd found much food, packaged of course, many weapons with ammunition, and otherwise ridded the Mojave of a gruesome tribe of cannibals.

Rudolph walked though the halls to the exit of the prison, before giving the outside courtyard another once-over. He didn't find anything else of interest either, and wanted to rid himself of the sight of the corpses, which were immediately being feasted upon by larvae of every sort.

Not wishing to waste energy breaking a hole in the fence, he decided to take the easy way out, the way he'd come in. Confident the entire prison was clear; he opened the door and made his way back to the lobby.

What he saw may have been the most horrifying thing he'd seen in his entire existence, more so than the cannibalized bodies, and more so than his true nature.

Rudolph entered through the door and shut it behind him, before turning his head to face the exit, he soon realized that he wasn't alone.

In the corner of the room were a collection of 6 children, 3 boys and 3 girls. They were dressed in overalls and sun dresses, not like the survivors Rudolph had encountered. He couldn't believe his eyes; he was certain he'd cleared the entire complex of all life. What the hell were these things?

These children weren't small, they were the size of adults. They weren't adults, but rather tall, lanky children. Rudolph couldn't believe his eyes, they stared at him but didn't make a sound, then they started to approach him.

"GET BACK!" Rudolph wailed, drawing his pistol to scare them away, not knowing if he had any intention to shoot them.

The tall children were undeterred, as if they didn't notice the weapon the masked man held in his hand. They had neutral expressions on their faces, no fear permeating their beings. They were so clean, their skin free of dirt and grime, as if they were from another world.

"I'M SERIOUS" Rudolph bellowed, firing a single round into the ceiling.

The shout and shot didn't deter the children either, they were almost in reaching distance of Rudolph, he'd never been more scared in his life.

There was only once way to stop this, but to stop it would change Rudolph forever, he didn't know if he was ready to make that step, to go where he'd never return. The children walked ever closer.

The 1st child closest pointed his finger to Rudolph, as he continued to walk, as if wanting to poke the demon, to see if he were alive.

Rudolph could take the suspense no longer, he was terrified. Damn the singing and damn the damnation, he could take no more, this wasn't right.

Rudolph aimed his 9mm pistol at the child and fired, and just before the bullet made contact, everything went black.


	8. Crawl Out Through The Fallout

Looks Like I'm Going To Hell

By Kachimoochi

Chapter VIII

Crawl Out Through The Fallout

Rudolph didn't understand what had happened.

It wasn't that his life flashed before his eyes, in fact, nothing flashed. Rudolph turned his head to look around, as he now was conscious, but he couldn't. He tried to look at his hands, but he couldn't. He knew he was awake, he could feel his body, feel himself move, he was able to touch his body. It seemed as if somebody had tied a black rag to his face, or in some other way had rendered him blind.

Surprisingly, it wasn't this sudden blindness which concerned Rudolph, which inhabited his brain in either fear of contemplation. Such emotions were centralized on the act Rudolph had committed before he'd gone blind. He'd shot a child, at least he thought he had. From the final image he remembered, he didn't see the bullet impact the child, but rather he heard the "bang", saw the muzzle flash, and then everything went black.

Rudolph also wondered what exactly happened before he shot the child. He had never seen such beings in his entire life, both what he could remember of the old wasteland, and the Dust. The children wore stereotypical child clothing, the boy's overalls and tee shirts, and the girl's sun dresses. The children had pristine skin, and were at least 5 and a half feet tall, as if they were teenagers dressed as children.

What were those things? They couldn't have been real, could they?

Rudolph decided that it didn't matter any longer, either he was dead or he was blind and would die soon. Maybe his sanity couldn't handle the mass murder he'd committed and pulled the plug finally. Rudolph decided he wasn't too upset with the present situation.

It felt nice to close his eyes, Rudolph decided.

But this was hardly the end of Rudolph's tale. The Mojave wasteland was indeed merciless, and would not allow Rudolph a peaceful passing. Maybe he wasn't worthy of it, maybe he didn't deserve it, maybe he was dead already. Whichever benevolent force dictated life itself returned it to Rudolph, and he opened his eyes once again.

Firstly, Rudolph's eyes were met with a blinding white, as if to symbolize his return to reality, if only. The whiteness of course was due to hours of rest, or something of the sort. This blindness was immediately followed by even more blindness, as the room Rudolph was currently in was pitch black. Rudolph pondered the thought of closing his eyes for good, but the illogic that plagued his consciousness prevented such a thought from taking root.

Rudolph felt that he was laying on his back, seemingly uninjured, but definitely weak. He felt as if he'd been awake for days on end, which he might have been, if not for him realizing that his eyes had been closed for god knows how long. His sight slowly returned to him, as he noticed a black border surrounding his peripheral vision. This, he realized was the tribal helmet he always wore, amazed he kept it on.

This was wrong, very wrong. Rudolph slowly stood himself up on his feet, focusing more on staying conscious than analyzing his surroundings. His vision was now blurry, and he saw flashes of yellow light dashing across his eyes, no doubt from standing up quickly. When Rudolph totally regained his vision, he wouldn't be too pleased to have it returned, as usual it only brought more problems.

Rudolph wasn't in the prison, in fact, he wasn't anywhere he'd ever seen before. As his eyes settled and began to focus, he realized that he was in a house, a dark, dingy house. It didn't look like any house out of the ordinary, it was dark, decrepit, and smelled of radioactive mold. As Rudolph turned his head, he noticed a phrase written on a wall behind him, a phrase he'd never seen before, but heard plenty enough.

"Begin Again" Wrote the phrase, in a leaky, red substance.

It couldn't have been a coincidence, it was if that message, written in blood he assumed, was meant for Rudolph. But who would have written it? Why? What was the purpose of that phrase "Begin Again"? Why did that woman keep singing it? Why did he keep thinking about it? All of these questions raced around in Rudolph's head, shouting even louder than the woman's singing. Rudolph assumed such questions in such succession in such a tone would have been the straw that broke the camel's back, the thought that would finally drive him insane.

It might have been too, if Rudolph hadn't turned around.

What lay on the ground behind him would have been enough to drive the hardest man alive into spilling his guts onto the ground below, but not Rudolph. Like always, he'd seen and done much worse.

What lay on the ground was the dead, mutilated body of a young girl, the same age as the children he'd seen before, but much shorter. Her eyes were glazed open in either tears or mucus, her chest was burst open, not as if it had been shot, but torn by some feral beast. Her clothes were torn, small scraps covering her body, and a single article covering much or her chest. That article was a piece of paper attached to a nail, which had assumedly been hammered into her chest.

As one may expect, Rudolph didn't bother his mind at the sight of the brutally slain child, The Mojave spared nobody, this wasn't the first child to die, and it wouldn't be the last. Rudolph simply approached the pitiful corpse and removed the paper from the nail, nearly tearing it in half from the force. Taking off his helmet, he studied the paper, or rather what was written on it.

Rudolph Is A Killer

Rudolph Is A Thief

Rudolph Eats Human Flesh

And Pretends Its Beef

As Rudolph finished reading the note, it made even less sense. Placing his helmet back on his head, he felt tears beginning to form in his eyes. As strange as it may seem, this is indeed what shocked Rudolph the most, the coagulated concoction of water and salt which perspired down his cheek.

For the first time in he couldn't remember how long, Rudolph cried. He cried for those he killed, he cried for himself, and he cried for the corpse he knelt beside. The worst part was that it was all true, even if he couldn't remember some of it. This is who he was, who he truly was. A killer, a thief, and maybe even a cannibal. Such perverse writing wasn't poetry, but a biography.

Through once again blurred vision, Rudolph looked once more at the corpse beside him. It was indeed rotten, but wasn't feasted upon by parasites or fungus yet, an anomaly indeed. She looked so young, so small. Rudolph wondered who she was, if he killed her, where he was. It was as if he left his previous existence for a personal hell, or maybe a purgatory.

An idea popped itself into Rudolph's head, it was something he'd never paid much attention to before, yet a useful gadget never the less. The wrist mounted computer, the Pip-Boy, could identify beings throughout the world, mainly the name they went by. Rudolph didn't know how such a thing could read the minds of the living or dead to establish their monikers, yet it did, and it wasn't worth questioning.

It wasn't necessary of course, it would only bring him more pain, yet Rudolph had to do it. Rudolph aimed his Pip-Boy at the corpse of the young girl, targeting her body on the computer screen. He didn't question why he was doing this; he'd never bothered to use this attribute before, especially to those he'd killed already. For some reason, this felt right to him, as if he'd feel more human if he knew her name.

The Pip-Boy's conclusion? The girl's name was: Peace.

Eventually, Rudolph's sorrow subsided, as it often did for the pure instincts of survival and nihilism. Rudolph rose to his feet from the corpse of the young girl and reexamined his surroundings. He realized that indeed he was in some sort of basement, maybe that of a house or a warehouse. There were shelves of various chemicals that the old-world inhabitants used to clean their clothes, or to cook needlessly complicated meals.

Leading from the storage basement was a single flight of stairs, directly behind the corpse. Rudolph traversed the stairs and stopped just short of the final step. It was then he noticed yet another oddity, it wasn't unexpected at this point.

From the first step there was a one-foot drop, if Rudolph hadn't kept his eyes to his feet, he'd have surely taken a tumble. Even stranger, it wasn't just a drop, but a drop onto a large, grey, empty space, with a ceiling fan in its center. Ceiling fan may have been a poor description, as said fan wasn't on the ceiling, but right in front of Rudolph after he stepped onto the wooden ceiling.

A simple look upwards by Rudolph revealed all. Whatever room this was, whatever world this was, it wasn't real. It couldn't have been.

As Rudolph shifted his hunched neck within his helmet to view the ceiling of this room, another oddity made a final presence. As he looked, he viewed a sofa bolted to the ceiling, along with several tables, appliances, and even a television set. The room was upside down.

And as if to add even more insult to this oddity, the accursed phrase "Begin Again" was splattered onto each and every wall, sometimes small, sometimes large, always written in blood. Though much before should have proved it, now he was certain, Rudolph had gone insane. Whatever was around him, the corpse, the house, none of it was real, it was in his head.

Rudolph of course had no proof of this hypothesis; his mind was dedicated to survival. This upside-down house perhaps was a final plea to Rudolph to change his ways, or to save his mind.

"Hmph…yeah, maybe that's it" Rudolph decided.

Rudolph determined this event to be a taste of things to come if he followed the path he'd been following. The dead child, the upside-down world, the pain, the suffering; was this what insanity was?

Then again, would it be so bad?

This was true fear, not the Halloween skeleton shouting from a bush, or an axe murderer chasing a couple through the woods, this was reality-AKA-fear. What remained of the wasteland, of Rudolph, that is fear. Killing not just to survive, but to make life easier, watching suffering, helpless to make it stop, that was fear.

Or rather, that's what experiencing fear is. But what if one controlled fear?

What if to escape the Mojave, you had to be just as insane as the cannibal beside you. These conventions: mercy, honor, peace-all meaningless. Rudolph knew what good these things served for the old world, hell, he knew how well they served the wasteland. It seemed that by acting sane, it only brought about the insane.

Maybe that was what happening right now.

Maybe this wasn't a warning, but an advertisement. This was insanity personified, offering it's benefits to Rudolph. Sure, he was scared of it now, but how much further could he fall, to fall until the sight of a slaughtered child didn't phase him. And what then? He'd be a force unlike anything in the wasteland, he wouldn't just survive, he'd thrive.

All he'd have to do is continue doing what he'd been doing, and he'd never have to worry again. Hell, why would he have to escape the Mojave after all, he'd be right at home.

Rudolph stood in front of a door, again a foot inclining the way up. He knew this was the exit to wherever, he just knew it. When he returned to the world, he knew he'd have to make a choice. Not a choice of how to escape the Mojave, but how to save himself from himself, or if he should bother anyways.

He opened the door to find a void of blackness, just as he had when he found the jukebox, and after he'd killed the short-haired woman. This time it had no flickering bulb or fading neon to brighten the path, it was just pure darkness. Rudolph decided this must be the way, traversing the darkness back to the light so to speak. He took a long, labored breath, and stepped forward into the abyss.

Never did Rudolph stop pondering the question he'd been presented with. He'd have to answer it and face the consequences of it soon enough, but he'd put it off for now.

Would he be the soulful angel who escapes the Mojave and begins again? Or would he lose his mind, accept the madness, and rule the Mojave in darkness?

Only time would tell.


End file.
